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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059214">prevaricator</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven'>sirenseven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>props [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Butt Plugs, Dark Bruce Wayne, Dark Jason Todd, Dissociation, Gaslighting, Grooming, Incest, M/M, Painful Sex, Restraints, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Shame, Tim Drake is Robin, Victim Blaming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:02:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it feels like all Tim's done for the past three years is come up with lies and excuses. This is fine. Everything is fine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>props [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>prevaricator</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Maybe they didn't notice</em>, the extra-dumb part of Tim's brain offers, and he resists the urge to smack himself.</p><p>Tim can't imagine how pathetic he must have looked by the end of the night, barely able to brush his own teeth—and that's after bawling his eyes out in the middle of sex. Cold hindsight illuminates what a mess he became yesterday, running in circles and breaking down in increasingly more embarrassing ways. He may have literally no recollection of what happened between kneeling in the shower and reaching Bruce's room, but he's pretty sure they noticed.</p><p>His surrounding memories are hazy and distorted, like he was drugged in a fight or stayed up multiple days in a row, but without cause. Tim might be more concerned about the gaps if he had any desire to recall the details. Remembering Jason's uncharacteristic softness is already enough. He acted nicer than Tim thought him capable, and somehow it only made Tim feel worse.</p><p><em>Maybe they won't mention it</em>, the slightly less dumb part of his brain says. Maybe. If he's lucky. But why would the universe start letting him off the hook for his mistakes now?</p><p>Tim turns his face into the pillow to hide from early morning light, and prepares excuses. Justifications if Bruce asks him about his breakdown. Clever retorts if Jason tries to mock him. Lies to his dad about why his neck is bruised. Lies to friends and teachers. Lies to the Titans next weekend. Lies to Dick about where he is and what he's doing. How he'll explain the bruises on his hips if anyone notices them. How he'll answer questions about what he did this weekend. Every little excuse for every little question.</p><p>Sometimes it feels like this is all he's done for the past few years: workshop justifications and lies. Most of the time, no one ends up asking for them at all.</p><p>Tim stretches his legs out, and his face heats up when the buttplug reminds him of its presence. It's not painful, but it is uncomfortable—and it's even more humiliating. The mattress still dips with a weight to either side of him, dissuading him from taking it out.</p><p>He's also, you know, hard, because of course he is. Stupid morning. Stupid body. Bruce says it's perfectly natural for teenagers, that Tim's obvious eagerness is endearing or even attractive. Told him to think about Bruce when he needs to take care of morning wood at home. <em>Completely normal</em>. Tim's brain just seems hooked on exactly one feeling this morning, and that feeling is shame.</p><p>Rustling sounds beside him.</p><p>“Good morning,” Bruce rumbles, voice hoarse with sleep. Tim looks over to see the man wiping his face.</p><p>“'Morning,” he murmurs back.</p><p>When Bruce's eyes meet his, there's a little smile in his expression, and some of the tightness in Tim's chest releases. Bruce's moments of displeasure may be ice cold, but his hints of approval are everything.</p><p>“Sleep well?” he asks, moving to touch his mouth to Tim's temple. Warmth radiates out from the spot through Tim's entire body.</p><p>“Yeah.” Sleep is the one part of his night he has no concerns about.</p><p>Tim tips his head accommodatingly as Bruce presses light kisses down his neck. A large hand rubs his chest over his shirt.</p><p>“Glad to hear it,” Bruce says. Here it comes. The question about how he is, or what the hell happened last night. Maybe, knowing Bruce, a too casual statement about Tim's demeanor, carrying his question and concern through implication. Tim holds his breath.</p><p>Bruce doesn't say a word.</p><p>His hand drifts over Tim's ribs, abdomen, all the way to his erection. Tim feels the smile against his neck, glad his own burning face is turned away.</p><p>“Let me help,” Bruce murmurs, pushing his pants down.</p><p>Tim watches the lump ahead of him as Bruce has at it. Somewhere in that pile of duvet and pillows is Jason, a sliver of one shoulder and a foot visible. Tim can't tell which way he's facing. By the lack of movement he's asleep, but still a looming presence.</p><p>Rotting guilt hits him. Selfish, Tim wanting Jason gone for his own sake when he knows, maybe better than anyone, just how hard Jason's loss hits Bruce. He was there the first time, saw exactly what it did to Bruce and to Batman and to Gotham. Maybe he wouldn't be <em>dead</em> this time, but Tim can't imagine Bruce would deal with his rejection much better.</p><p>Robin is supposed to help. Tim is supposed to help. That's literally why he's here. So what's a little teenage embarrassment in the greater scope?</p><p>“Hn.” Bruce's hand stills.</p><p>Too late, Tim realizes how little he's been reacting. “Sorry. I'm...”</p><p>“No,” Bruce says. Slight stubble momentarily brushes against his jaw. “Just going to make me work a little harder.”</p><p>It's a teasing tone, but Tim still vows to be less trouble as Bruce rolls away. What's wrong with him? He's gotten off a million times before. The teenage boy jokes aren't unfounded; sometimes it takes barely anything. He can do better than this.</p><p>Bruce turns back after a brief pause with sounds Tim barely registered. He slots himself up against Tim's back. When his hand closes around Tim again, spread with lube, Tim makes himself release a soft breath at the smoother slide. He closes his eyes, focuses like he's supposed to. Not on the hardness rubbing at the small of his back, not on the discomforting mass of Jason ahead; just on feeling.</p><p>It's a jarring distraction but not a surprise when fingers toy at the plug. Tim bites his lips against a request to keep things simple. If he's getting off—and clearly he's going to—it's only fair Bruce does too.</p><p>Bruce yanks it out suddenly and Tim hisses before he can stop himself. Fuck. That's—okay. Okay. So that clearly dried out overnight. Chafing is not the greatest feeling. But he's felt plenty worse pain. Tim doesn't know if it's better quick like a band-aid or wiggled out slowly, but he's got to defer to Bruce's experience.</p><p>“Hurt?” Bruce asks.</p><p>“Just a little dry,” Tim whispers back. He feels out his muscles, clenching and releasing. Sore, but not overwhelmingly so. A little raw sting at the entrance. And weirdly...cold, in a way Tim doesn't understand until Bruce slides a finger in without resistance. Airflow. He didn't close up all the way.</p><p>And his face is burning again. God, he's acting like a blushing thirteen-year-old, virginal and clueless and needing to be shepherded along every step. He's better than that now.</p><p>Supposed to be, at least. Tim is expecting the usual prep, taken off guard when Bruce slides himself in less than a minute later. He bites his lip against the stretch—but it's not nearly as much as it should be. (<em>Slut</em>.)</p><p>“So open,” Bruce groans.</p><p>Tim doesn't need to focus on feeling; he's going to feel regardless. He focuses on the subtle patterns in Bruce's sheets instead, tiny interlocking ovals patterned in threads. Dark grey and even darker grey. Shiny in silk. All of Bruce's sheets have the same material, which Tim has long since felt over every inch of his body. The colors and patterns vary, if not by much, and Tim is familiar with each one.</p><p>“Good boy,” Bruce says a little while in, though it's unearned. Tim hasn't really done anything but pant and lay still while Bruce takes.</p><p>He twists his head around to entreat the man into a kiss. Bruce always kisses like he <em>wants</em>, like he <em>needs</em> Tim, even when he's trying to control himself. His free arm wraps around Tim's chest, pulling them tight together, and Tim finally closes his eyes.</p><p>It's over soon. Tim first, at Bruce's command, and then Bruce a few minutes after that. Or many minutes. Probably not hours. Tim's not very clear on time right now.</p><p>His eyes stay closed as Bruce pulls out, grimacing at the feeling. Still a dry burn at the rim, and now even more disgusting. Wet like a slut, last night's remains still congealed inside. The sticky drips down his thighs are as uncomfortable as ever, making his stomach churn.</p><p>“Do I get a ride?”</p><p>Tim's eyes snap open. Jason has pulled himself out of his blanket cocoon, smirking with his head propped up on a fist.</p><p>As soon as he catches Tim looking, his eyes drag pointedly over the scene, making Tim's skin prickle in discomfort. Tim knows bait when he sees it. He refuses to ask how long Jason has been awake and watching.</p><p>He can't help but look to Bruce, though. Just a glance. Tim tells himself he's not stupid and he already knows what he'll find, but his chest still clenches when Bruce raises an eyebrow. The expression says the request sounds reasonable to him—like a teacher insisting you can't bring snacks into class unless you have enough to share with everyone. Tim knows; he knows that. Jason is a pain, but he'll leave if he doesn't get what he wants. Bruce is good, but he can't stand the thought of losing Jason. Tim is here to help.</p><p>He's so goddamn <em>tired</em> of letting things happen.</p><p>Tim throws himself upright and climbs over Jason, shoving him onto his back. Jason's eyes widen, but he doesn't push back. Tim will pretend for his own peace of mind that it's because he sees something forceful in Tim's face and not because he's indulging Tim. He is going to do <em>one</em> thing, without anyone else puppeting him.</p><p>The slight discomfort as it goes in, smoothed only by the lube and come already in him, stirs something spiteful, though Tim can't even tell who he's spiting. He plants his hands on Jason's chest and moves firm and quick.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jason groans. “God. Desperate little slut.”</p><p>He doesn't respond to the stupid porn dialogue. He's probably proving Jason right, but he doesn't even care. When Jason grabs his hips, digging into Friday's bruises, Tim just grits his teeth against the pain and keeps bouncing.</p><p>He doesn't even get off.</p><p>Jason comes with his usual grunting, the only time his smugness falters. Tim expects it when he goes for the plug again, jaw clenched. He's been acting pretty stupid, but he's still smart enough to recognize a pattern.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Why did he do that why did he do that why did he do that why did he do that why did he do that why did he do that why did he do that why did he</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>In the year before Tim's mom died, his parents got so snippy with each other that practically every conversation turned into a fight. Once, during a shorter stopover between trips, they had such a loud argument that it kept Tim up well into the night.</p><p>The next morning, they were refusing to speak a word to each other but still insisting on family breakfast. Tim got asked pointedly light questions about school and friends, while being forced to translate between them: <em>Tim, please ask that woman to pass the butter</em>, and, <em>Honey, tell your dad if he were ever willing to exert the slightest bit of effort, he could get it himself</em>.</p><p>The meal ended with them taking opposing stances over whether Tim should try out for a school sport or join the math team, while pretending they couldn't even hear each other. It was, hands down, the most uncomfortable breakfast Tim has ever been a part of.</p><p>Today might give it competition.</p><p>Tim sits at the kitchen island with Bruce and Jason, trying his best to forget the <em>sex toy</em> that is <em>still in him</em> while Alfred bustles about. He's so distracted it takes him half the meal to notice Alfred's blatant delight at having his grandson around, serving everyone with far more vigor than usual.</p><p>Watching Jason eat breakfast and not try to kill or fuck anyone is the weirdest thing Tim has seen.</p><p>The whole weekend feels like an extended dream sequence, vivid and strange and irrationally emotional. On Monday—less than twenty four hours from now—Tim will wake up and suddenly have to go back to the real world. Reality looks impossibly distant, like he's been away for years and not days. If this is a dream, it's the kind where you feel like you've always been there and always will be.</p><p>Bruce sits between the boys, but Jason keeps reaching around his back to pinch Tim's shoulder when he thinks no one is looking. It's not really painful. More reminiscent of Dick catching Tim in a surprise noogie, but the association just makes him resent Jason more. He resists the urge to lunge across Bruce and punch his stupid face in.</p><p>Like it's not his own fault for encouraging Jason. (<em>You're perfect for this, huh?</em>) The ache of the bruises on his hips lingers—let alone what's between them, which he's elected to ignore. (<em>Desperate little</em>—) His throat hurts when he swallows. And with all that, he still comes every time they say.</p><p>They probably think he likes it. Hurting. He does like it. He did it himself. He's pathetic for being upset over getting what he wants. Selfish. Stupid for being embarrassed right now, when Bruce and Jason betray no disturbance. But Bruce and Jason aren't the disgusting ones with evidence still inside their bodies.</p><p>“Another waffle, Master Tim?” Alfred asks, grabbing the serving fork when Tim's plate threatens to become visible through the stack.</p><p><em>Yes please, Alfred. Did you know that at this very moment there is semen inside of me that is not mine? Thank you for the waffles</em>.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Tim finally recovers his phone after breakfast and slips away to his room. The guest room that is theoretically set up for him, anyway. It's where he keeps his stuff, even if he only sleeps here half the time. Or not at all, this weekend.</p><p>Where everyone else is, he doesn't know, and for the moment he's more than happy not to. Whatever Bruce and Jason want to do together—like last night pre-patrol, as if they'd forgotten how much sound echoes down the stairway to the Cave—is a-okay with him. Despite Bruce's worries, Tim feels not a hint of jealousy. Bruce and Jason can work out their shit by themselves, and Tim can get some alone time.</p><p>Ignoring his unfinished homework, he peers down at the phone, bedroom door closing behind him. Usually he checks it before bed for his night owl friends and when he wakes up for his early bird family, but it sort of...slipped his attention. He hasn't looked at since before before patrol last night, and Tim guiltily notes the missed texts.</p><p>Nothing from his dad, predictably, but one from Dana reminding him they'll be back tomorrow and checking in to make sure he's alright. Tim almost smiles. If his dad had to rebound so quickly, he's glad it was with Dana. No tense breakfasts between them. He's been worried on the rare occasion they disagree, but he's never heard an actual fight, and Dana has never once asked Tim to play translator.</p><p>There's also a few texts from Dick (notorious double texter), which Tim doesn't immediately open. He pretends it's because he's handling one thing at a time, and not because of the clenching anxiety behind his ribs.</p><p>Stupid. Dick has never given him a single reason to be anxious.</p><p>Tim forces his attention back to Dana's text. <em>Thanks for checking in</em>—or is that too expectant? <em>Good to hear from you</em>, might come off passive-aggressive. Tim doesn't want to sound needy or demanding through the unclear tone of text. All he really needs to do is confirm he's fine, aware of their arrival time, and maybe offer well-wishes.</p><p>Then he sits down on the bed and abruptly remembers the elephant in the room. Or, you know, in <em>him</em>.</p><p><em>Hope you're having fun on the trip. I am very busy being a slut</em>, pops into his head without invitation. Tim drops the phone.</p><p>He can't. He just cannot text Dana—or Dick, or anyone else—while he is wearing that thing. He's just gonna take it out. He's just going to do it. It's not like it could stay in forever anyway. Like, at some point he <em>will</em> have to use the bathroom. That's basic logic. So he's just going to do it.</p><p>One incredibly humiliating bathroom trip and thorough cleaning later, Tim returns to his room.</p><p>He doesn't know what to do with the toy. He can't leave it in the bathroom where anyone, Alfred included, could find it. He definitely doesn't want to have it staring at him while he's in here. He hesitates to return it to Bruce's room in case it's occupied. Not putting it away is a stressful thought, but in the end it's the one he accepts. Tim shoves the cleaned toy into the very back of his dresser drawer and hastily closes it.</p><p>The soreness lingers as he sits, but Tim ignores it, refusing to even shift positions. Everything is <em>fine</em>, so there's no reason to change. Out of sight, out of mind; no need to dwell. Some need to do homework, which he will ignore until the last minute as is his inherent nature as a high school student. Clear need to respond to texts, which he will now do.</p><p>After a deep breath, he manages a reply to Dana with none of the trouble he had before. Mountains out of molehills. Tim Drake makes a big deal out of nothing part eighty-seven: the very basic text message.</p><p>To avoid Tim Drake makes a big deal out of nothing part eighty-eight, he taps over to Dick's texts immediately.</p><p>With a stab of guilt, Tim realizes in the flurry of fighting his phone back from Jason, he never replied to Dick's previous message. It was really nice, too, inviting him to visit or talk or anything whenever he wants. And Tim left him on read like an asshole.</p><p>The new timestamp reads 4:42 a.m., the kind of both early and late hour when even vigilantes sleep. Tim can't imagine Dick ever getting up that early, so wonders what trouble in Blüdhaven must have kept him up so long.</p><p>There are six texts. Stomach fluttering, Tim takes a deep breath before launching in.</p><p><em>Hey so I just really want to say sorry if I pushed you or made you feel pressured to stay. I worry (even if you are super capable) and I just want you to be safe. But the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable so I'm really sorry. If something's wrong I want to help but I know you have people to talk to who aren't me</em>.</p><p>
  <em>But you can talk to me tho if you want to. About anything. I might understand more than you think and I wont judge no matter what and ill always love you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>as my nicest littlest brother</em>
</p><p><em>which you know sorry. I have been up way too long. I SWEAR this is not a representation of how very chill and nonpressuring and cool I will be once I sleep</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Hope ur ok</em>
</p><p><em>No pressure but maybe if you have time we could talk at some point. No rush</em>.</p><p>The world, and Tim himself, does not deserve Dick Grayson. Tim presses the phone to his forehead like he can somehow suck in the warmth of the words, and tries to figure out a response.</p><p><em>No need to apologize</em>, seems like a good start. <em>Sorry for</em>—Ruining his day? But Dick will say he didn't. Stressing him out? Dick will probably say he always worries about Tim, a weird and warm thought. The thing he should really apologize for is that very stupid kiss, but Tim would like to never mention or think about that again. —<em>acting so weird</em>, he finishes, just vague enough to work. <em>You didn't do anything wrong. I was being a jerk</em>.</p><p>Tim dithers over the words, before swapping out the last. <em>I was being a dick</em>. Same message, but teeing the ball right up for Dick to make a joke and clear the air.</p><p>Dick responds about half a second later and sure enough, <em>A very smart funny and handsome person? :P</em></p><p>They are both trying way too hard, but there's still a relief in trying. Tim smiles and responds, <em>Exactly that. Totally what I meant.</em></p><p><em>Thanks for bearing with me</em>, he adds after a second.</p><p>He wants to add an, <em>I love you too</em>, but he's sure it would be weird and out of place, half a dozen texts too late. God, he really is a jerk. Dick can put awkwardness aside to be honest and kind, and Tim can't manage half that in return. He wants to make Dick feel better, but that's never been Tim's skill set.</p><p><em>Any time</em>, says Dick. <em>Dick is typing</em>, appears at the bottom of the screen right after, vanishing and reappearing a few times.</p><p>In the end, it's footsteps down the hall that settle it. Whatever Dick wants to say will wait. Tim's brief parlay with the outside world is over. Back to the dream.</p><p><em>I'll call you later</em>, he types and sends, too quick to second-guess.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Jason manhandles him into Bruce's office, groping Tim like a teenager at prom. Not that either of them, as far as Tim knows, have ever been to a prom. But he assumes.</p><p>The door clicks shut, Jason grabbing and squeezing as Tim glances around. The rich décor of the office is as usual, right down to Bruce sitting behind the mahogany desk. He regards them with some amusement, bouncing his eyebrows like a shared joke when he catches Tim's eye.</p><p>Jason tugs his attention back with a bite to his ear. Frankly, it's not sexy, but Tim is well aware by now what he likes and what Jason likes are not entirely compatible. Jason is the demanding problem child, and Tim is desperate not to stoop to his level, so what Jason likes perpetually takes precedence.</p><p>His hands shove into Tim's jeans and under his ass, sliding around to the middle. Tim knows exactly what he's going for, confirmed when they pause.</p><p>Jason pulls back, scowling like a kid who only got five pieces of candy when he wanted six. “You took it out?”</p><p><em>Yeah, duh</em>, Tim wisely does not say. Did he think it would somehow stay in forever? Tim can't tell if Jason got all his knowledge from unrealistic porn or if he's just that bad at thinking things through.</p><p>“He took it out,” Jason says to Bruce, that same kid demanding his parent buy the sixth piece. So Tim is back to being moved around like a prop and spoken about like he's not even here. Great.</p><p>Bruce leans back in his chair, glancing over them and to the unlocked entrance. “The door, Jason.”</p><p>“Me walking out of it, you mean?” Jason says.</p><p><em>We get it; you're a rogue loose canon who can't be controlled</em>, Tim doesn't say.</p><p>Bruce keeps his gaze steady and unchallenging, and after a beat Jason rolls his eyes and retreats to lock the door. Then it's back to being about Tim in the way that is not at all about Tim. Jason's smirk promises retribution.</p><p>It's unrealistic, but Tim starts to wonder if there was a way he <em>could</em> have kept it all in.</p><p>When Jason crowds him against the near side of the desk, turning him roughly, he knows he's right to worry. Tim frowns at the wood surface instead of peeking up to Bruce beyond it. He resists every instinct to fight as Jason yanks his shirt over his head and to his wrists, then loops it around until it's constricting Tim's hands together. It's just a shirt, he reminds himself. Hardly high-quality handcuffs. If he wanted to get out, he could.</p><p>And if he doesn't try, it's only because he's calm enough to play along. Not because discovering he couldn't—or, rather, discovering he'd be stopped—would be even worse.</p><p>Jason spins him back, and looks for something on his chest. Tim has a vague recollection of a mark there before. Doesn't matter. There's nothing there now. He has better things to do than remember, trying to keep from face-planting when Jason shoves him all the way across the desk, barely regaining his footing on the other side. Jason vaults it after him with far more grace. He perches on the edge, pulling Tim between his spread legs.</p><p>Bruce is still seated behind him. Tim feels a cold trickle of fear, hands bound and trapped between the pair of them just like... Not—not both of them again. He can't do that. He can't do that again. Tim clenches his jaw against any sound or plea.</p><p>His pants and briefs are pushed to his ankles, effectively hobbling him. Jason has a firm grip in front of him; Bruce leans in from behind. Tim closes his eyes.</p><p>He thinks of...the first time, way back with Bruce. Just after he became Robin. <em>Officially</em> became Robin, after months and months training, not just threw the suit on the first time. Really Robin, Bruce's permission, Dick's blessing, Alfred's approval. Jason's shadow.</p><p>He'd only been on the streets twice, both times on his own initiative when Bruce needed saving, but he'd remotely worked cases and comms and computers enough to prove himself. Prove he was worthy. Prove he could be trusted.</p><p>Bruce's innocent touches had grown more and more common. Lingered longer. Every arm around the shoulders or squeeze to the knee spread warmth through Tim. Approval. It was a natural step when Bruce shifted to the next stage of their relationship, hand in hand with becoming Robin. Partners on the street, partners at home. He'd been soft. Slow. Let Tim take his time.</p><p>Tim never slept with anyone before. He liked the literal part of it best, actually sleeping together afterwards. He can't count how many times it's been since, but he still remembers the first. The feeling of steady breaths ruffling his hair, heartbeat under his ear, warm chest and arms surrounding him. All the things he was scared or ashamed of that Bruce pushed him towards until he stopped being anxious. Naked and pink-cheeked, but alright as long as he wasn't alone.</p><p>A slap pulls him back.</p><p>Tim gasps, though the sting in his cheek is already fading as his eyes refocus. Bruce's office, years later, back to the present. He'd started drifting. He's getting good at that.</p><p>“I asked you a question,” Jason says, smirking too much to actually look annoyed. Probably delighted for the excuse to hit him.</p><p>“I missed it,” Tim says, slow and dumb and useless. He liked—he's awful—He liked Jason better as an empty costume in a glass case.</p><p>“Too distracted?” Jason's eyebrows wiggle. Suggestive, Tim belatedly understands.</p><p>Oh, huh, those are Bruce's fingers inside him. Tim almost didn't notice, so used to being—God. (<em>slutslutslut</em>) Isn't that a telling statement.</p><p>It didn't used to feel like this.</p><p>Jason rolls his eyes at the lack of response. “Forget it. You're all ready, right?”</p><p>Tim nods on habit, forgetting what he's nodding for.</p><p>He's empty, and then he's falling back, and then he's sinking down on—Bruce. He's on Bruce's lap. Tim breathes slow and loud as he stretches out again. The sensation is numbed. Did they give him—No. Everything is a little numb around the edges; it's just him.</p><p>You know? He's okay with that. It doesn't hurt. Tim wanted to hurt earlier and he doesn't now. Jason wants him to hurt, and Bruce will do it if Jason asks.</p><p>“Grab his hips,” Jason says, voice prodding. Hips. Bruises. Bruce is holding Tim by the waist instead to avoid them, but his hands move down at the order. “He can take it.”</p><p>Tim is slow and dumb, but he's peeling back to reality enough to notice Bruce was already digging his fingers in before Jason offered the justification. The jabbing aches refocus him further, impossible to ignore. His hips are going to be all colors of the rainbow by the end of this. The drag of Bruce inside gives incongruous sparks of pleasure.</p><p>Jason drinks in the sight with dark eyes. Tim is slow, but he's <em>not</em> dumb. Jason only looks at Tim to take in the bruises and marks. Mostly he looks at Bruce, or at places they connect. It's not jealousy. Tim doesn't want Jason looking at him anyway; he's <em>glad</em> that Jason only wants Bruce. But he doesn't want Bruce to only want Jason so maybe it...is jealousy? He's trying so hard not to. He's trying so hard not to be that.</p><p>Fingers on his jaw. Tim blurred time again. He becomes aware of his slack face, mouth open to breathe. Jason is the one holding it, one finger moving in to press on his tongue, skin and a faint hint of maple syrup.</p><p>He's almost naked. Tim is. Extra naked, maybe. His clothes are made restraints, and that makes him feel more naked than not having them at all. Everyone else is almost fully-clothed—extra fully-clothed, because they get to contrast with Tim.</p><p><em>Almost</em> fully-clothed because Bruce is inside him, and Jason is unzipping his pants. A jolt of fear hits Tim when his cock emerges, though it takes him two seconds to remember why.</p><p>Fuck. No, no. Not—he can't fit it; he can't.</p><p>Tim is certain he hasn't spoken, but he must have betrayed it somehow. Bruce's arms wrap firmer around him as he gently shushes. Breath ruffling Tim's hair, just like the first time. He misses the skin-to-skin contact, misses the boneless relaxation, misses the lack of pain, but Tim can pretend it's close enough.</p><p>“Good boy,” Bruce is murmuring. “You're doing perfectly.” (—<em>perfect for this, huh?</em>) “Taking me so well.” (<em>Slut</em>.)</p><p>“What's he freaking out about?” Jason says. Tim thinks he's the 'him.'</p><p>Bruce's response must be wordless, because he doesn't hear it.</p><p>A blink later, Jason's face is much closer, having leaned in. His expression is fake-soft, fake-nice, simpering condescension. His hand is on Tim's head again. Tim forgets when it left.</p><p>“C'mon, kid,” Jason coaxes. “You know how to do this.”</p><p>He pulls Tim's face down towards his—oh. Pulls his <em>mouth</em> down. Tim does know how to do that. It's not what he thought. Mountains out of molehills.</p><p>He opens his mouth. At least it's something to focus on.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p><em>Fork</em>, Tim thinks. <em>Fork, fork, fork. This is a fork I am holding in my hand, and it is made of metal, and I can feel that.</em></p><p><em>I am moving it down to stab the salad. That is the motion that I am doing with my hand. I can feel it.</em> The clink of his fork joins the soft sounds of eating in the dining room.</p><p>The polished plates seem to glint brighter than usual. Every bump and divot and curl of the leafs, every glisten of the dressing is clear. <em>I am leaning in and moving the fork up and opening my mouth to put it in. These are things I do instinctually when I eat, but they are all things I am doing with my body, which I can feel.</em></p><p><em>I can taste the salad. The vegetables are very fresh. The vinaigrette is good. Sweet and sharp</em>.</p><p>Everything is <em>more</em> than usual. That's the best way Tim can describe it. He's not drifting anymore, re-tethered to time and reality. Now, it's like he's both not present enough and too present. Like—instead of being a clear photograph, it's a really blurry one that someone sharpened up. All the details are back, but there's too much contrast, and it's not <em>right</em>.</p><p>“This is good, Alfie. What is that, raspberry?”</p><p>“A blueberry vinaigrette, Master Jason.”</p><p><em>Jason is complimenting Alfred and sitting and eating. Alfred is smiling and standing and...happy. I am still sitting here, because I have not moved.</em> Tim doesn't know if painstakingly thinking it out helps, but there's not much else he can do. He's hoping if he keeps explicitly reminding his brain and his body they're connected that they'll start acting like it again.</p><p>He's not losing time, at least. He is extremely aware of each second, in fact. Sharpened photograph.</p><p>It's after three, Wayne Manor's usual late lunch, to match the sleep schedule pushed by patrol. Tim eats earlier during the week, when he has to go to school, but he matches Bruce's timing when he spends days here. Today, he's glad for someone else's schedule; he didn't even realize he was hungry until he started eating.</p><p>It's okay. He's coming back to himself.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, how are you doing?” Dick asks.</p><p>“I'm fine.” Tim lays on his bed with the phone held to his ear, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't want to come up with a complicated lie. “How are you? You had a class today, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, good memory. Eleven- to thirteen-year-old intro trapeze.”</p><p>This is good. Dick feels half like a fantasy, but also more real that anything inside this house. Talking to him is grounding. Tim returns to the world where his friends and family and life exist, instead of the pressed down existence where he is one of three people in the universe.</p><p>“We're almost at the end of the course, so they're actually getting pretty good now,” Dick says.</p><p>“Is that the oldest class you teach?” Tim asks, more to keep listening to Dick talk than because he's genuinely curious.</p><p>“I filled in for Marta's high-schoolers once, but, yeah, that's the oldest class that's actually mine.” Tim closes his eyes, imagines where Dick is. On his couch? At the kitchen counter? Laying on his bed as well? It sounds like he's home and relaxing, no wind or noise in the background. “It's nice. I like the really little kids who can't even reach the bar on their own. Reminds me of when I learned.”</p><p>Tim swallows. <em>Keep talking</em>. “So how do you do trapeze if you can't reach the bar?”</p><p>“You get someone to hold you up and catch you. When I was really little, sometimes I would just hang onto my parents' backs while they went through a routine, but...” He chuckles. “That's a little dangerous to do with someone else's kid. And we don't get too many students <em>that</em> little anyway.”</p><p>There's a brief pause. Slow, dumb Tim a few hours ago wouldn't have noticed it, but Tim is a person again so he does. He braces for impact.</p><p>“My parents were like that, though. Trusting me to hang onto them, and always catching me when I didn't. It was all about expression and having fun, so they didn't get upset if I messed up.” Dick takes a breath. “It was pretty jarring when I started training with Bruce. He's a lot more...”</p><p>“Emotionally repressed,” Tim murmurs, when he trails off.</p><p>“Yeah. And...harsh.”</p><p>Tim can see exactly where this train is going. He can't stop it, but he won't help it along either.</p><p>“Tim.”</p><p><em>That's me</em>.</p><p>It's never comforting when Dick has to think before speaking. “I know I said I wouldn't—I'm not going to push, okay? But I'm going to ask once, and you can tell me you're uncomfortable at any point, and I'll drop it for some other time.”</p><p><em>I'm uncomfortable</em>, Tim thinks. But Dick is trying to help, and Tim doesn't want to guilt him over it. And...and more than that. There's some part of Tim that <em>wants</em> him to ask. There's some part that desperately wants to answer, to tell someone, to have someone to <em>talk</em> to.</p><p><em>I keep breaking down and losing time and I don't want to be selfish, but I think there's something wrong</em>. Because maybe Dick would tell him how to fix it, or maybe Dick would just—just tell him it's okay. That there's nothing wrong with him. Maybe the urge itself is an indictment, but right now Tim wants nothing more that someone to tell him he's not selfish and he's not dumb and he's not crazy.</p><p>“Who strangled you, Tim?”</p><p>Tim takes a deep breath.</p><p>Okay. He could say it right now. <em>Bruce strangled me because Jason told him to take over, and then they fucked me, and I want to help, but I don't know if I want</em> this. <em>What do I do, Dick?</em></p><p>His dad—and his school friends, and Dana, and everyone in his Tim Drake life—doesn't know about Robin. His friends in the Titans don't know Bruce, not really. Even Stephanie or Barbara or Batgirl don't really understand what it means to be Batman and Robin. Tim doesn't think anyone could understand without being part of it.</p><p>But Dick would understand. Dick would be the only person in the world who could, the only one without external bias. Tim could tell him, and he would get it because he knows Bruce and he knows Robin, even if Tim was wrong about what that entailed for Dick.</p><p>His fingers clench tight around the phone, lips squeezing against the lump in his throat, eyes burning. He could say it. Right now.</p><p>He just...<em>can't</em>.</p><p>Robin is supposed to help, and Tim is supposed to be trustworthy, and he would ruin everything. And he can't—he can't take it if Dick does understand, and only agrees Tim is the wrong one.</p><p>“Jason,” he says, throat tight, air leaving in a rush. “Jason strangled me.”</p><p>“And what...” Dick inhales loud enough to be heard through the phone. “What else did he do?”</p><p>Tim <em>hates</em> lying. Hates it. He does it all the time, hiding Robin from the rest of his life. In his experience, the key to a good lie is pure commitment—not letting any guilt get in your way. Tim has gotten pretty good at the Robin lies, because Robin is important enough to justify it, but he gets worse and worse the less and less he wants to lie.</p><p>Right now he really, really doesn't.</p><p>“He just, you know; he's Jason. He hates me. He—he beat me up, or whatever.” <em>He beat me up or whatever</em>, his brains echoes back to him mockingly. Idiot.</p><p>“You said—” Dick starts.</p><p>“I didn't say anything,” Tim interrupts. He didn't. Dick said it, all the important stuff, and Tim just...nodded. That's not a confession.</p><p>Dick pauses. “And Bruce?”</p><p>“Bruce doesn't want me to get hurt.” Tim's lying to <em>someone</em> at least. “But he doesn't want to alienate his son. I was just upset about that. Petty jealousy.”</p><p>“I thought...when you kissed me...”</p><p>Tim sucks in a breath, moving the phone from his ear for a moment. Fuck, okay, it's fine; he can do this. He knows the excuse.</p><p>He's going to burn down his entire life to keep Bruce's secrets, because he has to.</p><p>“I had a crush on you,” he forces out. Every word of it is like poison. He hates himself. He never should have called Dick. He never should have gone to Blüdhaven. “A long time ago, and I'm over it, but I guess I...”</p><p><em>I'm sorry; I'm sorry; I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Dick. I'm sorry</em>.</p><p>“I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable,” Tim says. “I didn't mean it. And it'll never come up again.”</p><p><em>Please forgive me. Please forgive me.</em> He doesn't deserve it, but, <em>please forgive me.</em></p><p>“If you're sure that's...it.”</p><p>Tim nods, eyes squeezing shut. “That's it.”</p><p>“If anyone <em>is</em> hurting you...”</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “No one's hurting me.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Robin flies.</p><p>Being Robin is always better than being Tim Drake, and tonight especially. The homework he has not done and will be hastily finishing during lunch tomorrow? Irrelevant to Robin. The relationships he's ruining? Unimportant. Family struggles and lies and maybe losing his mind? Tim problems.</p><p>Robin flies and only has to worry about the danger other people are in. Batman will let nothing, not Jason or sex or Tim's personal issues, get in the way of patrol. And Tim gets to—breathe. Finally.</p><p>“Robin, cover the back entrance.”</p><p>“On it, B.”</p><p>He swings around the building. Easy-peasy. Hopefully they <em>will</em> come out this way, and Tim can get in a good fight. Not to hurt anyone, but for the simplicity of adrenaline, where muscle memory takes over and he only has to focus on his next move.</p><p>“Any motion?”</p><p>“Nothing yet,” Tim says.</p><p>Bruce has stuck close all night, extra attentive. Batman has the lightness that marks Tim's favorite nights, where they get an easy rhythm going, bouncing off each other like perfect partners, occasional tip from Oracle sending them on for more. Tim swears he even saw Batman smile.</p><p>For a moment, Tim thought the extra attention was Bruce's form of apology—and then berated himself for expecting an apology at all when Everything Is Fine. It's probably just a gesture, Bruce proving he won't leave Tim behind and give all his attention to Jason, like he promised. Less kindly, it could be Bruce pandering to what he sees as Tim's fragility.</p><p>But Tim isn't fragile. Robin definitely isn't. The night is cold and alive, the dangers are beaten back by heroes, and everything is alright.</p><p>“Dropping smoke bombs in three,” says Batman.</p><p>Robin braces up for that fight.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“I could call you in sick tomorrow,” Batman says, when they're driving home and the rush of Robin has to come to a close.</p><p>Tim looks over to him, surprised. Bruce is usually so intent on vigilante work not interfering with his schooling. It's, like, top five rules of being Robin.</p><p>“I'm not sick,” he says. Obvious, but still feels less dumb that outright asking Bruce why.</p><p>Bruce glances over, indicating his neck.</p><p>“It's okay,” Tim says. “I can cover it up. I've explained bruises before.”</p><p>Maybe ones that were less finger-shaped, but still. He has his lies locked and loaded. Most days Tim is just as ready to ditch school as any other junior, but right now, even with the specter of unfinished homework, he's eager to return to the real world.</p><p>“Alright,” Bruce says. His hand lands on Tim's thigh, warm but constricting.</p><p>One more night. The Batmobile rumbles home, and then tomorrow...tomorrow Tim is a real person again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tim: this is bruce's son dick and he's the greatest human being in the entire world and he hung the sun and can kicks anyone's ass and gives really good hugs and I love him</p><p>also tim: this is bruce's other son jason and he ain't shit<br/> </p><p>thanks again to go_devil89 for playing beta. I hope I have sufficiently broken all your hearts until next time &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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